


Mr. & Mrs. John Moore (aka Sara Howard Moore) I: Separate Spaces

by BradyGirl_12



Series: Mr. & Mrs. John Moore (aka Sara Howard Moore) [1]
Category: The Alienist (TV)
Genre: 1890s, 19th Century, Canon Het Relationship, Drama, Established Relationship, F/M, Het, Marriage, Married Life, Original Character(s), Original Female Character(s) - Freeform, Original Male Characters - Freeform, Series, Suffragettes, Victorian, Victorian Attitudes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-15
Updated: 2019-06-15
Packaged: 2020-05-12 09:23:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19226287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BradyGirl_12/pseuds/BradyGirl_12
Summary: Sara and John Moore aren’t joined at the hip in their marriage.





	Mr. & Mrs. John Moore (aka Sara Howard Moore) I: Separate Spaces

**Author's Note:**

> Original DW/LJ Date Of Completion: April 2, 2018  
> Original DW/LJ Date Of Posting: June 15, 2019  
> Disclaimer: I don’t own ‘em, TNT does, more’s the pity.  
> Original DW/LJ Word Count: 2543  
> Feedback welcome and appreciated.  
> Author’s Note: The entire series can be found [here.](https://bradygirl-12.dreamwidth.org/4740399.html)

_There are places,_  
_Which are separate spaces,_  
_Good for man and wife,_  
_In married life._

  


**Mrs. Elsa Higgins**  
**_"The Guide To_** __  
**_A Proper Marriage"_**  
**1851 C.E.**

  
Really, she’s impossible. What a disgrace to proper womanhood!

Sara Howard, now Mrs. John Moore, is a willful, headstrong young lady who was spoiled by her father. He indulged her and put wild ideas in her head. Without her father, Sara would probably never have applied to the police department, of all places!

It would be bad enough if a little immigrant girl was working in that building, with those low-class Irish, who are bad as the criminals they drag into that place, but a woman whose family is a member of the Four Hundred? Utter insanity!

My name is Mrs. Horace Standish, Evelyn for my Christian name. I knew Sara’s parents and am sure her mother would never approve of Sara’s choice of career. Next thing you know she’ll be wearing bloomers!

& & & & & &

Sara spoke to Bridget, satisfied that the girl understood her instructions. She was pleased that John had agreed to make their home in her house. John’s grandmother was in firm charge of the Moore household, and Sara preferred to run things her own way, and John agreed. He loved his grandmother, but she was definitely old-fashioned. The idea of running a progressive household appealed to him.

Sara thought back fondly to John’s proposal, delivered right here in this very parlor.

& & & & & &

_Sara sat primly in her chair, eyes blinking at John on bended knee in front of her. The ring sparkled on a white satin lining in a blue velvet box as he held it out and smiled._

_“I’m honored.”_

_His smile faltered slightly. “But…?”_

_“I wish you to know that life would be unconventional with me at best. I…probably would embarrass you, John.”_

_His smile brightened. “I doubt it. I’m already proposing to a member of the New York City Police Department!”_

_It was Sara’s turn to smile. “I must warn you, people will say you cannot control your wife.”_

_“Oh, god, I hope not! Control sounds rather exhausting.”_

_She laughed but grew serious. “One last thing. If you grow weary of my progressivism, tell me. If you want to…to…”_

_“You’re giving me an out.” She nodded mutely. He smiled again and said fondly, “I appreciate your generosity. I offer you the same.”_

_“I appreciate that.” Sara leaned forward. “Honesty is very important to me, John. Fidelity, too. I pledge the same to you.”_

_John’s smile grew brighter. “Life with you will never be dull, Miss Sara Howard.”_

_She took the ring from its box. "I agree, Mr. John Moore.” She slipped the ring on her finger._

_He grasped her hand and stood, bending over to kiss her._

& & & & & &

Sara checked with Cook in the kitchen. “Chicken and fish courses are excellent, and I’m pleased that the number of courses are half the usual. My guests enjoy food, but we wish to discuss business instead of sitting at table all evening.”

“Yes, mum,” said Cook, her pudgy fingers skillfully kneading fresh dough.

Sara smiled. “I leave the rest of the menu in your capable hands.”

Cook grinned. “Ya won’t be disappointed, Mrs. Moore.”

Sara regarded the gray-haired woman fondly. “Of course not.”

She retired to her bedroom, where her maid was waiting. Sara approved of the gown laid out upon the bed and Anna helped her to undress. 

“It’s a lot easier to dress now that we don’t have those devilish corsets.” Anna smoothed her own ribs.

“I’m glad you follow the new way of thinking when it comes to healthier clothing for women.”

“It’s a blessing, ma’am.” The middle-aged maid was quite pleased. “I can breathe much better.”

“So can I. Less ‘vapors’, eh?”

Anna laughed. “Yes, ma’am.”

The dress was of the latest fashion, still requiring assistance with a long row of buttons in the back. Sara went against fashion in her daywear but for a dinner gown, she decided on keeping some of the latest features.

_Apparently even Progressives can still be bound by convention._

The dress was a rich brown silk with gold edging at the hem and sleeves. Anna helped pin up her hair with a gold comb, intricately designed and sparkling with tiny diamonds.

“Oh, you look fine, Miss Sara.”

“Thank you, Anna.” Sara applied some very light blush. ‘Painted women’ were disapproved of, but Society women knew how to apply make-up in such a way as to avoid such condemnation. “I think it’s due to better health. I have better natural color.” 

“I believe you’re right.”

Sara smiled.

& & & & & &

“You have a fine home, Sara.”

“Thank you, Bertha.”

Bertha Samson was a husky woman who dressed traditionally, complete with outsized feathered hat, but her brown eyes were cold and penetrating. She knew what she wanted and worked tirelessly toward it. Women’s suffrage was what she wanted, and Sara was not surprised to think she might get it in their lifetimes. It was an exciting thought.

“Most lovely,” agreed Edna Carlisle. While Bertha was a widow, Edna was a spinster and proud of it. Her wispy gray hair was pulled back into a severe bun, and she wore plain dresses with a simple cameo at the throat. Her pinched nose and sharp chin gave her a hard appearance along with a spindle-thin body. She was humorless but ruthlessly efficient.

Fortunately there were more women on the Committee For Women’s Suffrage, and Sara was busy for the next half hour greeting new arrivals and mingling. Anna had everything under control, supervising the two maids for dispensing _hors d’oeuvres_ , and Cook was in complete command of the kitchen staff. 

The pre-dinner mingling was mostly successful, though Sara had to break up a heated argument. Carrie Swanson and Meryl Hudson were talking about a story in _The New York Sun._

Carrie’s hazel eyes narrowed. “Do you really think that the poor are basically immoral?”

Meryl waved her hand negligently. “What am I supposed to think with all the crime in the slums?”

“Don’t you think the slums breed crime? Eleanor says that they’re packed like sardines in a can in those filthy tenements. How would you like to live in constant chaos in crowded rooms with little food or sleep? It’s enough to drive anyone to crime.”

“Plenty of the poor don't turn to crime.”

“But some are drawn to it.”

Meryl shook her head, her glossy pompadour in danger of collapse. “Shows lack of character.”

Carrie made an impatient gesture. “That’s just ridiculous.”

“Ridiculous! See here…”

“Ladies, everything all right here?” Sara asked as she appeared with a friendly smile.

Carrie smoothed her green skirt. “Everything’s just fine and dandy, dear.”

Sara smiled a little brighter. “Good. I look forward to hearing your report tonight.”

“I look forward to giving it.”

Meryl crossed her arms, the rustle of silk a pleasant undercurrent. Sara could also smell the scent of lavender. Meryl was especially fond of that perfume.

“Have you tried the salmon _crepes?”_ Sara asked.

& & & & & &

Dinner went well. Talk about the latest Broadway play kept everyone entertained as they enjoyed exquisitely-prepared food. The dozen members of the Committee For Women’s Suffrage enjoyed cultural pursuits in addition to their crusading work. The lighter conversation prepared them for the evening’s work.

Carrie was seated to Sara’s right. Anna had wisely put the placecard of Meryl Hudson several seats away, switching it with another guest’s. Seated several feet away from Meryl, Carrie was relaxed and engaging.

“So, is John upstairs hiding out?” she asked as the attention of the diners was elsewhere.

“No, he’s at his club.”

“His club?” Carrie’s nose wrinkled in distaste. “One of those men-only places?”

“I suppose it is.”

“And you allow such a thing?”

Sara laughed. “Allow? I don’t order John around.”

“A strong woman asserts herself.”

Sara took a bite of cherry glace. She said coolly, “I have never lacked for assertion, but marriage is a two-way street.”

“Not the way men treat it. They are lords of the manor,” said Carrie bitterly.

“I know very well about men. You haven’t forgotten where I work?”

“No, and I admire you for it, but letting John go to a gentleman’s club is not a good image for a woman fighting for her own rights.”

“Nevertheless, John doesn’t tell me where I should go and I give him the same courtesy.”

Carrie nearly rolled her eyes. “You are a stubborn woman, Sara.”

“Thank you.”

Carrie let out an exasperated sigh while Sara took another bite of her cherry glace, her eyes sparkling.

& & & & & &

“Ah, nothing like a good brandy.”

John observed the gentleman sipping his expensive Napoleon brandy. Thinning white hair framed a ruddy face, the bulbous nose and veined cheeks a sure sign of excessive drink. John certainly knew that look.

Hiram Griggsby was a good storyteller even when he got too far into his cups. Stout but silver-tongued, he entertained his friends at the table.

Reggie Van Driver and Maxwell Browning laughed as they sipped their own brandies. Reggie was darkly handsome and Maxwell affected chestnut curls and an insouciant grin.

John felt proud of himself as he sipped a Coca-Cola. The carbonated beverage was growing more popular every day. Staying away from alcohol could be difficult, but he was becoming more knowledgeable about different kinds of coffee, tea, and carbonated beverages.

 _The Knickerbocker Club’s_ dining room was richly-appointed with comfortable leather chairs and subdued lighting. Dark wood paneling and a wine-red carpet lent a quiet ambience to the room.

“And so she said, ‘Now that was a scuppa, Guv’nor!’”

Hiram’s listeners laughed and Maxwell said as he took a sip of brandy, “Hiram, where do you find these stories?”

“Life experience, lad, life experience.” Hiram drained his snifter and signaled the waiter for a refill.

“Surprised to see you here, old boy,” Reggie said to John.

“Oh?”

“Didn’t think the little woman would let you come to a gentleman’s-only club.” Maxwell smirked while Hiram impatiently waited for his fresh brandy.

John felt momentary anger but immediately cooled down. Sara was provoked far more than he ever was on a daily basis and somehow managed not to scream. He smiled.

“Oh, she prefers me out of the house this evening.”

“Is she having one of those dreadful suffragette meetings?” asked Reggie disdainfully.

“Yes, she is.”

“A bunch of dowdy old shrews getting together to screech about women’s rights.” Maxwell shook his head. “They ought to be taking care of their men and children.”

Reggie snorted. “Men and children? _That_ group?” 

“Not every suffragette comes from the same mold, you know.” John spread some butter on a slice of thick bread.

“No, they’re just moldy.”

John paused, the bread halfway to his mouth. “Really, Reggie? A rather sad joke.”

“Lame is more like it,” Maxwell said.

John enjoyed his bread while Reggie and Maxwell exchanged amiable insults. He supposed his masculine pride should be injured at his friends’ assumptions. As for Sara and the suffragettes, he would not even engage. He would never change these idiots’ minds. They weren’t even the most extreme of male opposition. Plenty worse men out there.

The waiter appeared with a crystal decanter of brandy and filled Hiram’s snifter to the brim without being told to do so. Hiram was a regular here, and all the waiters knew what he wanted. He picked up the snifter even before the waiter was gone and drank nearly half of it in one gulp.

“Well, you know,” he said, putting his snifter down, “the little ladies have a point.”

“What point?” Reggie asked with a smirk.

“Oh, that they could do no worse than us men in running things.”

“Oh, Hiram, are you serious?” Maxwell laughed.

“Well, could they?” Hiram took out a fine cigar and lit it, blowing out a ring of smoke.

“Maybe so,” John said.

“Oh, you’d fall for that, wouldn’t you?” Reggie scoffed.

“Why? Because I believe that women have brains?” John sipped his Coca-Cola.

“Sara has bamboozled you. She still works for the Police Department, and you and she work for that alienist on special cases. You should have adopted that street urchin and she should have a child to look after.”

John felt an old pang. “At the time, my single status made adoption…complicated. I had friends who lived in the Massachusetts Berkshires. They met Joseph and all parties were happy to form a new family, and he lives in fresh air and sunshine, away from this blighted city.”

John did not mention that he had wanted to get Joseph away from Mulberry Street and the old gang. He wanted a completely fresh start for the boy, who had been traumatized by his encounter with John Beecham.

“Fresh air does a body good,” Reggie said.

“It has done a world of good for Joseph. Sara and I have visited him in Massachusetts.”

Hiram gulped his brandy. “Good show, John.”

John felt a little better. Hiram Griggsby might be a drunk, but his opinion carried weight. When sober, his insight was keen and apparently an excess of drink did not diminish that skill very much.

“Well, you’d better get busy and put Sara in a family way soon, and get her attention focused on something besides the vote,” Reggie said as he signaled their waiter.

John felt a tightening in his stomach. “Sound advice as always, Reggie.”

“Don’t worry, old man, when you least expect it, that baby will come along.”

& & & & & &

Sara heard the front door open. She went out to the foyer. “Did you have a good time?”

“Oh, fabulous,” said John.

She smiled. “Who were your companions?”

John gave his hat and coat to Maggie, their maid. “Hiram Griggsby, Reggie Van Driver, and Maxwell Browning.”

“Oh, dear.” Sara took his hand and kissed him. She led him into the library. “Hiram’s intelligent but always in his cups; Reggie is an unbearable snob, and Maxwell is a twit.”

“Aptly described.” John slumped into his chair behind the desk. “They can all be exhausting.” 

Sara squeezed his shoulder and took a seat on the horsehair sofa. “Was dinner all right?”

“Oh, yes, the club has an excellent chef.”

“Good.” Sara cocked her head. “Is everything all right?”

“I know you’d prefer I not go to a gentleman’s club that bars women.”

“Actually, I don’t mind. We both need our own spaces.” She waved her hand. “This library is a shared space, but you have your study and I have my writing room. A gentleman’s club is good for you outside the house, while a tearoom is my space.”

John considered this. “So you’re saying separate spaces are good for us?”

“Our class has always conducted marriage as such. We have separate bedrooms so as not to disturb each other if we come home late from our separate pursuits.” She smiled as she leaned forward. “Of course, that doesn’t mean we spend every night apart.” She stood and with a rustle of silk skirts, left the library. At the exit she looked back with a seductive smile this time, then turned around and headed for the main staircase.

John smiled and rose from his chair. Separate spaces were good, but shared spaces were better. He hurried after his wife.

Mrs. Horace Standish would not approve.


End file.
